Archives for posts with tag: Fleeting Pixel

Shaken loose | from flakes of the waltz | and layers of lace | are those my | fingers moving? | Twitching? | With their | green | caterpillar | skin? | Go over the same | old ground | Show the mecanismo | of lightning and the gold | to the fleas and | cats | explain to the fire | the nature of burning and | to the stolidly | beautiful | the nature of their | beauty | Why speak of | change? | What else | is there?

Schubert and the butterflies | of holes in the ground | we dump our fire | Old | newspaper | desiccated | assassins and goal poachers | Marimba | bones | the pot-head | skull | each moment | an egg, so many! | and the eyes | cocoons || Dust in the attic | with the toys and | kling | klang | klung | of a de-tuned | piano || Go back | to your last thought, what | was its shape again? | Lightening | your path | over the water | where the mosquitoes | pace | with their booty | of an animal’s | blood | and my heart | holds down | a cicada’s | shift | is loss | a trail of | golden debris | cogs and | jewel bearings | My teeth | scuttle back to their | roots | we | hit tacks into | day again | assembling | the scene | sketching | of lime trees | the wind | in their tops | the wobbling | sun | Our meaning | is always | difference | like love || Isn’t that the same | for everyone?

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

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Shot of | forsythia, cracks of | blue-grey sky | The fork in the wrist, in the cliff, urban commuter trains | Your sickness means | the iron is heavy to lift | “the man | carries the horse in this village” | will you | carry it far? | Then you are healthy, the iron runs | liquid and light | and the world is young | you may ride for thousands for miles | into the outskirts of Berlin | to the fragrant lowlands | where there are wolves and yurts | The fork in the fading photograph | the fork in the lungs | at the day’s | woolly ends | at noon | You glance into the cold | nihilistic furnace | of a cat’s eyes | you want the birds just to be birds | a place to park them | let them stack and rest | inert | not fly up suddenly | all as one | sensing the approach of an unspeakable change | a tremor | a faint | scent of smoke | a fainter | roar | Offering this character | your mercy | your time | your care | offering that one | short shrift | not filling in | their features | Apportioning to the sea | this measure, the sands | that value | their love | this moment’s | qualities | Scripting the world | not the drip of pain | drop by drop | from a Greek | greatness | but cracks | of clear April sky | and on the ripe | tartan blanket in the basket | the teats and squirm and nuzzle | of Nuisance and her pups | How to | pursue your story, now? | Isn’t it mostly a question | of holding on | while you’re | making your mind up?

Into the blue-grey void | a turbulent mist, almost violet | a perpetual | agitation, full of curves and eddies | as at the base of a great waterfall, no detail | can be made out entirely, all | is a swell and drift and feather | of misty spray | How to carve up a cloud? | Anyway, the traffic waits | So much is autopilot and yeah, so? | And as for their love, it is enough | for now

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

You felt as if you were missing an illusion | to complete your wisdom | so you set out | on your last journey | It’s an old story, kind of | Voyages | from the red | petals of coals glimpsed through | veils the bridal | spiders dropped | as guests ran from a stirred unease | of rainswept weddings | pages of Whitman or Verlaine | stained by pressed flowers | a washed-out | lavender or | windswept | rose | a whole | history | of sentiments and misadventure | lies right | on the edge of truths | all they lacked | finally | was love | Across continents | by Boeing or Airbus | hibiscus in Hong Kong | camellia in Tokyo | the heart as sweet jar, trick or sump | Flicking through the book of the mirror | skipping the florid roué with the watery, evasive eyes | pausing only briefly at the rue-filled charlatan | or the blood-dipped | buck | lingering over the statesman | and good friend | the naked boy | stripped of his tutu | too tired to | make the layers of | white irony | rustle or shine…

Wolves are coming | wolves with black fur, blacker even | than the beginning of everything | blacker, the fur, than | the darkness | snuffed candles | slipped into | a spider-slung room | in a remote chateau, to the east, 1708 | Wolves with | white fur, too | Wolves | with every | kind of fur | Do you understand | the concept of wolves? | If so, set out | on your last | journey | run quickly! | floundering | through the thigh-deep snow | escape if you can | Wolves | with eyes so purely blue | even the survivors will never | see anything so pure again | but the blood | fuck! | it ran copiously | and made a truly | horrible mess | against the background | of a perfect, crisp | winter’s noon | Very soon | you and I | will be so | alone | I’ll bring the vision | you’ll bring the excuse | I’ll bring the anchor | you the storm | I the proposal | you the partial | negation, and in such a way | we’ll negotiate | this onerous moment | I’ll stay | you’ll leave | that’s how | the joke works | Ask for all the great lines | to come round | again, and again | It’s not | going to | happen | Listen, I’ll be | the sorrow | you can never | reach | the lovers | you let fall and drift | the promises | you made and didn’t | even | regret | breaking | I’ll be the glum inexorable | munch of circumstance | against the fine-cut | foundations of heroic ideals | the tiring | stature of your soul | fatigue of limb and bond and reason | the drying up | of lust and even | of affection | and the wolves, again | and the ocean of their needs | Feel for one | last time | the vast | boat of the spring, the only | real season | setting out | with a cargo of | flowers and leaves | choking gold | flagrant sheens | pouts and pots | astral | expansions | of purple and crimson | glisten of | the mighty | insects waking | taking the pollen strain | in their long teams | and all the words | I write | now | all my wisdom | compiles | the fall of cold rain | over the cold sea | no matter what I do | I can only | commit the oldest | indiscretion | with the newest | hands | then turn away | and cast my child into memory

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

On electric winds, seeds of memory are scattered and | clicked away

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

Often, too great | to bear | Often, too, too small | The wind picks locks | in cavities, gaps under the foundations | near dawn | metal shop shutters | billow faintly and rattle | but no thieves come | Moments tumble out of our watches | if they could form a tiny, translucent mound, would we | tell one from another? | Midway once more | through the three failures | first | the failure to mean enough | second | the failure to be sufficiently meaningful | third | the failure, simply, to be | It’s a familiar | scenario | Always | just right to bear | the days with their sublime precision | still ground spare for burial | the sea with no taste | for regret or sorrow | and the ship as futile as the cargo

Houses floating on a flood of light | did you say you wanted to come back? | Fruit in season, peel off the banana skin | the sticker, black and gold, bearing the company logo | The mind has elsewhere | my mind | your mind | Ecuador or Mecca, Skye, Middlesbrough | a dry canyon in Peru | currents | winds | distant | lovers | From the headland, watch the tankers | queue for the refinery | like toy magnets | or grains of Thai rice | the moments | stick to each other | When the impossible, at last, arrives | cram the memories into their boxes | look beyond the stones | to the forest’s edge | where shadows negotiate their stories | learn again the modesty | of a name that always fails | to escape the gorgeous mire | of dusk, cedars, mosquitoes, mist | and fails, too | the first and most crucial test | to be alone, and so merely | to be no more than it is

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

Fleeing into sleep | Wanting to ask again, Why do you do this? | If it was a boat in a Flemish painting, you’d understand | If it was a | poem in a collection | by a famous writer | you’d understand | or an English telephone box | sited at a particular corner, solid and red, but… | Shake it, no | key falls out, and the edges blurred, like the mist of a waterfall | It is attached to no fire but once / (was it?) / it was wired into flames and the burning was obvious | as burning is || A quiet | Sunday afternoon | in the Kingdom of Orphans | the children at their | various pastimes | pouring their souls down into the | barrels of skipping or | books | or poring over kites | with all their | melancholy devotion, it is a voice | looking for voices | a nagging | awareness of the EXIT sign | and rolled | under the trees | among its comrades | a sterile fruit to | taste fine and not | go on

Opening a different letter | Piling up boxes inside a dream | stacking crates | doing chores || Saying “tomato”, saying | “potato” || Divergent | ascents | rocket curves from an | Itano circus | their tendrils of smoke | describing a sinuous | cat’s cradle | a basket | to hold nothing || Terrible eyes | of the purest writers | cold and depthless | the skies for nomads | the bitter, unripe apricots | on the highest trees | bitten and spat out, this is their | track | the pits and the shells | hashish and scribbles || It has no | agreeable proportions | it will not | remain still | No one | calls you to it | no wise authority | explains it is good, it is useful, it is so | Loitering around | a provincial cinema | near dusk | inside | the green | capitals of ENTRANCE signs | call you back to your youth | the axiom | of your mother’s hand | held out || Building a love | to discover how it dies | A sumptuous | acid-like clarity | the shimmer of flies | on experimental fruits | and a child | reading | following a line | with her fingertip | munching her apple | and every | two | verses | pausing, and | looking up

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

Between the first stars and the last stars | A slice of moving darkness | our thoughts | petals | faces on a passing train


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

The way in is the way out | If only it were that easy! | He dances for the mountain | as if he was in a poem | I take a step | forwards, I take a step | backwards | The mountain is shy, she says | And falling is close | Her lips touch the kirschblüten as she says | Hanami | For some, the mountain means | what you take away | from the mountain | but he | is close to falling | he knows | you must give to the mountain | dancing | I am | not | so committed | I take a step | forwards | I take a step | backwards | I never act | as if I’m in | a poem, anymore | hence | the mountain comes | closer for me | then slips away | I make no | offering | and thus my lips | don’t touch | the kirschblüten | in her lips | when she says | Hanami

Cherry blood | as if from a crushing | If you have seen snow, you cannot but | think of snow | when the wind | swirls the petals | The mountain is shy | sometimes wears a rice-straw hat | is ever leaving | knows the way | out is not | the way in | She still | believes in love | but I | take a step | towards her, then | a step back | An offer | is not | an offering | Another | step | back | from the one | who believes in love | and a step | forwards | She smiles | You know, the way you move | she says | it’s a little like dancing

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

In shadow housing, hidden from view | grapple with fire risks and claustrophobia | our romance becomes | a history of narrow escapes and catastrophic insolvency | Skyscrapers in waterbeads | rent to ghosts | cities in memoirs, prone to subsidence and earthquake dreams | no one records our descent | our home has no number | our votes lost at sea | Fame | eats the violet hours | print beasts | crunch up the bones of nymphs and sprites | enjoy your view | over the volcano | write your letters | perfumed and redolent | of youth and struggle, the intangible | mood of the new, the unfelt | feeling | send them off to The Daily Oblivion | and wait, and wait… | There is no demon | walking quickly through the snow | the skulls of dormice | shattering beneath his hooves | Who owns you today? | How many of them | have a part of you | a stake | in you? | Draw back, draw back | recede | soften and dissolve | to a cool | dispassion | and look down | on it all | with eyes | of the inhuman moon | In an invisible bedroom | we make love as | visible as we can | while in the public streets below | bailiffs bash and roar | brutalised and brutalising | with their cudgels and guns | pausing at the corner, afterwards | wrapping soft treasures | in silk handkerchiefs for their secret daughters

I read last night | in Weekly Amnesia | a fictionalised account | of our Lisbon sojourn | the hijacks we carried out | the corpses we pushed | from the cockpits of airliners | corpses of Iraqis and Saudis | French and Italians | Han Chinese | Brits, Chileans, Americans | The dead are fixed | in an aspic mode | the widows and widowers | deal with dissolution | In our epics | our sagas | we weight the print with horseshoe metre | clad in steel | thistledowns and electric caresses | forge in incorruptible poses | bronze statues entirely | unconscious of their fall | stupidly still pointing | Walk away | from the others | down to the shore | at our feet | an icy glint and creep | of bottles | special with messages | O our | moment | O my | daughter

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

Our hands | slide helplessly | Wonky stars | whirl and speed, it is | all perfectly normal | Just a Tuesday | The trees | throw bunches of fire into us, we cannot | deny the spring | Platform | life | The stillness of suburban stations | in the evening, power | ready to be drawn | echoes of | tired footsteps on bridges | saturated by | sun | dwarf pines and | purple tulips | What is | inside us, this | thirst that may not | be quenched? | Dropped the Earth, needing | to keep some balance | but one day it is | flour in a | fine pyramid, the next | ashes or glances, what is one | to do to make it | even out? | When all the ladders turn to snakes | and the sea | asks for drowning as its | natural due? | Pinning the heart | to its next beat | letting out the rope | of breath | slowly, slowly, then | quickly! | Half awake | beside a | near stranger | the bed | drifts | and an un- | familiar line | awaits | Ill- | lit | the mind | unshaven | a bag of | glinting | razors | Who lies here | dry-mouthed | hazily | begging of the day no real | slaking? | Your memory | says it is you, but | is it?

Who is to | pick up the parts once the | crash is over? | And the life has | disassembled into | literal pieces, the hanging | scales of the metaphors all | fallen back to | Earth? | Is the Space Race | really over? | Lift even the smallest | fragments of the fire | into bags | then turn, at last, and | show me your face

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)